Late Night with Sherlock
by Besina
Summary: Something's been occupying Sherlock's mind lately, and for once, he's not enjoying his single-mindedness. PWP, sleepy!John, bad!Sherlock. Part 1 of the "Late Night with Sherlock" series.


Sherlock fought off his irritation. His cock was raging hard; a difficulty he'd seldom had until John moved in and made that not-quite-an-advance at Angelo's. Yes, _it was all fine_, indeed. If it hadn't been for John bringing it up, his mind would have never even wandered there. He'd successfully sequestered sex from his brain. Now he couldn't get it out of those sordid little places in his head.

He'd experimented with sex before, mostly to collect data and figure out what all the fuss was about. And, as with all things, to acquire a talent for it – even if he thought certain activities beneath him, it didn't preclude him from desiring to be good at it.

_Thanks, John_, he thought bitterly, as he shoved his face into his pillow and moaned with frustration, hips silently thrusting into his mattress.

It had been several months since that first case and he knew John was rather adamantly _**not gay**__, _(perhaps overly-sensitive about it? Or was that wishful thinking?) And still that exchange haunted him. In the calmer moments of his mind, his reflections would wander inexorably toward thoughts of John. _Was it the inaccessible that intrigued him? Was that the basis for this obsession?_

He'd always been able to satisfy his body when it had demanded it, but that only required vague images and manual stimulation. Now it seemed his body was demanding more. At least his mind was. _Damn you, John!_

He thought of them laughing together, the look of John's lips turned up in a nearly breathless grin; the adoration in his eyes. He tried to re-channel that image into sexual adoration, John waiting to please him - no, the transition just didn't work. He groaned again, beating his fist against his pillow and swearing as his hips pushed futilely against the bed. _This wasn't going to work._

He hadn't ached this badly since he was a teenager. Even then, he'd managed to take care of it. This was a particularly stubborn hard-on. Nothing seemed to please it. He rolled to his side, lightly palmed his cock, massaging his balls as the ache thrummed through them. He envisioned the encounters he'd had during what he'd come to think of as his 'sexual tutelage'. Lips, breasts, hips, cocks, arses, pussies… they'd all felt good. He'd catalogued every sensation and brought them back to mind now as he caressed himself; played back the feeling of having his cock sucked with the vision of John's adoring eyes gazing up at him.

No. Nothing. Well not _nothing_, it was only as if it was a further tease, leaving him aroused, but nowhere near offering him anything toward relief.

_AUGH! This was killing him!_ He flipped over defiantly onto his back, prick pointing ceiling-ward, flushed and turgid. For a minute he flailed all his limbs angrily on the bed, having a mini-tantrum of pent-up sexual frustration, turning up his chin and biting back a tight-lipped scream of aggravation.

It was nearly 3 in the morning. No need to wake John up.

He wanted to wake John up.

_No. That was being silly. John was straight. SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT!_

If he ignored it, maybe it would go away_._ _No, that had never worked. _Cold shower then?_ Only option left, apparently, everything else had failed miserably._

He launched himself angrily from his bed and walked stiffly, in every sense of the word, toward the bathroom, turned the taps on to freezing and sullenly stepped in, his arms crossed obstinately across his chest, a scowl on his face as he let the icy waters hit him.

He stood there until his teeth began to chatter, his body shivered. He was still angry with himself. He stood in the cold stream of water rather longer than necessary as punishment to his body for not coming to heel when he demanded it. Physically, it was impossible for the cold waters not to tame the erection as his body pulled all the blood it could get in to warm his core; but his mind still lingered in those forbidden places, and it wasn't long after he dried off that he noticed the hated erection returning with added vigour.

"_**No!"**_ he bellowed, stomping his foot hard enough on the floor to hurt, and hurling the nearest thing to hand across his bedroom, before freezing stock still, horrified by what he'd just done. Seconds ticked by that seemed like hours, before he allowed himself to breathe again. Apparently he hadn't woken John, who would, thankfully, _not_ be racing down the stairs to see if Sherlock had injured himself and finding him standing, erect, in all his glory. (_Would that be so bad?_ Inquired one rather naive part of his brain. _YES! _He thought grumpily_._) He sighed slowly, some tension draining from his veins, but sadly, not the ones in his cock. He sat down, defeated, on the side of his bed, eyes nearly aglow with unshed tears of frustration.

_Why __**hadn't**__ John come flying down the stairs? He certainly had created enough of a ruckus. The howled 'no' followed by thumps and crashing noises would certainly have alerted the soldier in John to potential danger._

_Was John alright? (Seriously, Sherlock, now you're making up excuses. You know it was a long day and he's a heavy sleeper.) _

_Maaayybe, but surely it would do no harm to check._ His pulse raced at the thought of sneaking up the stairs to spy on his sleeping flatmate. _Nothing wrong with that; just checking to make sure he's okay... _

…_Okay, fine, I'm a pervert, but I still want to see he's okay. _

_No you don't, you just want to see him. Naked. _Purred the pervy part of his brain_. _

_Shut up shut up shut up!_

He got to his feet slowly, cock bobbing obscenely with his every move. He pulled on his robe and stealthily opened the door, walking silently across the sitting room and mounting the stairs quietly toward John's bedroom. The door sat slightly ajar. He could see John lying across the bed on his back, one hand flopped lazily off the side, covers knocked down to his midsection.

_Didn't John usually sleep in a t-shirt? _He'd always appeared in one and pyjama bottoms right before trundling up to bed. Sherlock had assumed he must have slept in them. But no, the shirt was discarded on the chair beside the bed. No sign of pyjama bottoms though, he must still be wearing those. Perhaps the shirt was due to some sense of propriety, or embarrassment over his scar. Completely ridiculous notions, in Sherlock's opinion, but he'd begun to understand people held them just the same.

He crouched at the edge of the bed, still unsure of himself, engrossed in watching John sleep. His cock twitched; he growled at it inwardly. _Why couldn't it just behave? He shouldn't even be here. This damn penis was going to get him in trouble._ He rose to turn and leave, but a breathy moan from John caught him in mid-turn. He looked warily back over his shoulder to find the doctor still snoozing, still unaware of his presence. That sound had been…interesting.

He turned back around. If he was going to stay, he needed to make sure John was well asleep. Judging by that … noise, and the rapid fluttering under his eyelids, John was in REM sleep, which left him perhaps twenty minutes, likely less.

He sank back down, eyes flitting across John's exposed chest. He wanted to touch.

_No Touching!_

_Dammit!_

He let his dressing gown fall open, slowly trailing his fingers up his cock. A shiver took him. _Oh yes, much better than by himself in his room, no matter how good his sense memory was. _A few strokes had his mouth dropping open, eyes closing inadvertently as he tried not to make a sound while he fondled himself. He opened them again only to find himself fixating on those lips. They were a bit dry; John was breathing through his mouth, but they looked soft and _warm_. He shuddered again, trying to let his brain regain control before he did something stupid. Too late.

He was beside the head of the bed, standing over John, breath hitching in his throat, peering at those lips. _Just want to touch, just one touch. No more._

_Sherlock!_

_Shut up._

His hand held firmly onto his cock as he lowered it gently to graze across John's lips.

_What the hell are you doing? We're going to get caught! John will kill us! _

_Us?_

_Me! Whatever!_

God that felt good! He felt himself shudder again. John hadn't moved; perhaps one more stroke across those lips, through that warm breath… He brushed against John's lips again, watching his cock sweeping over them, then eyes closing as he catalogued every sensation.

His body trembled.

_Oh shit! Oh shit! No! CRAP! _

His free hand flailed for and caught the headboard as every muscle in his body gave out. He bit his lip and groaned, trying his hardest to angle himself away from John's face. If John woke up to this he was a dead man, doubly so if he found Sherlock had just given him a facial. His eyes squeezed shut as he shuddered again, barely able to keep himself held aloft by the headboard.

Moments ticked by.

When his body had finally ridden out the wave and gathered enough strength for him to pry his eyes open again, he saw the evidence of his visit splashed all over John's chest.

John was starting to surface, the last vestiges of REM abating.

_Oh crap._

_But was that EVER good!_

_Shut up! Must think! Idiot brain._

_Not an idiot._

_Shut up!_

Sherlock hastily tied his robe shut and launched himself toward John's abandoned tee, quickly, tersely, mopping him up. He had no time to be gentle if he was going to dispose of the evidence before John woke up.

_Wonderful, genius, now what are you going to do with the shirt?_

He quickly squirrelled it away in the sleeve of his robe.

John's eyes fluttered open, his unfocused gaze on Sherlock. Sherlock seized on a plan and began shaking him.

"Wha?" inquired the sleepy voice.

"John? John? Are you alright?" asked Sherlock in his most concerned tones.

"Um.. yeah?" came the bleary reply. "Nightmare?" he inquired. It was the only reason he could think of for Sherlock to be standing here in the middle of the night, shaking him; though it certainly didn't feel like he'd just had one. He wasn't tangled in the sheets, nor slicked in sweat for one, no two. No, wait, his chest did feel a bit wet…

"I dried you off a bit," offered Sherlock as he saw John's hand rise tentatively to his chest. "Must have been a bad one, John, heard you all the way down in my room," he added, trying to deflect John's current train of thought.

"Oh," mumbled John, his thoughts still muddled. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"No problem, John. You just get some sleep." Sherlock pulled the covers back up over John and tucked him in as unawkwardly as possible. He tried not to hare it down the stairs as he pulled John's door closed behind him.

_That was close. Way too close._

_But you loved it, _the pervy part of his mind responded_._

_Of course I did! But we can't lose John._

_No, _he conceded to himself_, we can't._

He shrugged off his robe, draping it across the end of his bed, walked to his closet and hid John's shirt. He had meant to burn it, but couldn't make himself do it quite yet. John was sure to question the whereabouts of it, but probably not before tomorrow night, by which time he was sure he could sneak up and replace its rumpled up mass with another from John's closet. John didn't notice much, so if he did think it a discrepancy, surely he would shrug it off.

_That was more than a bit not good, _he thought.

He knew. He never should have done that. It rose up in his mind that he had just accosted his best friend in his sleep. He mentally slapped himself. He promised he'd never allow himself a repeat, but was it so bad to have felt so good? He sighed to himself. Probably.

Nevertheless, he lay back in his bed and mentally re-ran the night, smiling slightly before berating himself again, then debating deleting the entire encounter, deciding against it and drifting off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading! I can be found on Tumblr as BesinaAo3<p>

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